Alternatives(en)
by darkrogue1
Summary: Blake and Mortimer. What if Blake declared himself first, for once ? Chapter 1: First battle of the Swordfish. Chapter 2: The Yellow Mark. Chapter 3: The Francis Blake Affair. Chapter 4: The Francis Blake Affair. Each chapter is independent. Translation of Alternatives. Beta-read and edited by Blackpenny
1. Sing, O Goddess, the Anger

For me, Between bubbles remains "what happened". But this does not prevent us from considering other possibilities.

* * *

 _1947_

Six o'clock, the fateful hour. The battle has lasted all night, with the troops hard at defending the Swordfish assembly line, the defenders' last hope and, beyond, the whole world's oppressed people's last hope. Blake, as an experienced pilot, volunteered for the first flight of the prototype designed by Professor Mortimer, who as a designer and expert on his aircraft volunteered to pilot the second.

How many men have already fallen to defend the base! The enemies are almost at the last door to the assembly hall. They have almost won. But finally it is time! The professor's team have completed their preparations and the first two Swordfish are ready to be piloted - even if it is only manually.

Blake rushes to his friend who, while helping him with his flight equipment, makes his last recommendations. The captain does his best to concentrate on Mortimer's words and not on the comforting warmth of his hands, on this human and welcome contact which takes him away from the fury of the fighting he has just left, and to which he will have to go back. But if Philip Mortimer is at his side, nothing feels impossible.

Suddenly, a foreman rushes towards Mortimer, interrupting his explanation of the safety instructions.

"Professor, one of the seals in the SX2's cockpit is leaking. It'll take us 15 minutes to sort out, maybe more ."

"Dammit!" the professor curses.

 _Fatality_. Thinks Blake. _It is Fate's will_. He will be alone, then, the last defender of the base on its knees but not yet defeated, and briefly, an old memory crosses his mind.

 _All our best men lie by the ships wounded by arrow or spear thrust.*_ *

And immediately taking his decision, he speaks up: "Listen, old chap, time is of the essence."

Too bad. He will fight dearly for his life and will do as much damage as possible, but as the only target of the whole Empire's fleet, his chances are low - unless this new weapon is truly revolutionary. The arrival of the second Swordfish will be decisive.

"I'll go ahead, join me as soon as possible,"

 _Let me borrow that armour of yours._

The poem's echo reminds him of its fatal outcome. It is quite possible that this assault will turn out for the worse. If the man he loves can be saved, Blake is not afraid of sacrificing himself.

"Besides, if I fail, your presence here is much more vital than mine."

"Fine," replies Mortimer, "but in that case stay in radio contact."

It is time for farewell, perhaps forever this time. Blake does not want to leave without confessing the emotion which holds him in its grasp. He hugs his fellow soldier, and, as his words fail him, he draws on the ancient eloquence and on the image that has just struck him. "The enemy is besieging the Achaean ships and it is with your weapons that I go fight them." He whispers to his friend's ear. "If I fall in battle, strapped in your Swordfish, it will be like being in your arms." Then, pulling back with a last pressure on Mortimer's forearms he adds: "Wish me luck!"

Then Blake rushes to the ladder, climbs aboard the SX1, and casts a last look back, so that the last face he sees is Mortimer's. "Goodbye, Mortimer!" he says before disappearing into the cockpit.

"Good luck, Blake!" The answer bursts forth, worried.

* * *

Mortimer removes his helmet to take charge of the manoeuvre, and dons headphones to communicate with the submarine. As he gives his orders to the team, he wonders what Blake might have meant with this last farewell. Patroclus and Achilles? At this moment?

At the time, he was still in shock at having to let Blake leave alone. All he understood was that the captain would risk his life without him. It was almost mechanically that he had answered his friend's injunction to wish him good luck, but now it came back to him: _It will be like in your arms._

He feels his throat tighten. Patroclus and Achilles. Mortimer would never have dared hope for it. He himself feels all the affection that it is possible to have of a platonic relationship for Francis Blake. Did his friend really mean that more was possible? But he cannot let himself be distracted: he is needed for the maneuver. "Ready on the pumps!"

Professional, he must stay professional. The fate of the world depends on them, every moment counts, and most importantly Blake must be able to concentrate on his piloting. This is not the time to distract him. For Mortimer, Blake's safety must now be a priority. He refocuses on the checklist "Hello! Blake! Is everything all right? Pressure? Water tightness?

His invention seems to behave as expected, but he cannot prevent the anxiety that grasps him at every new step Francis takes with the prototype.

Suddenly, the foreman from before comes to warn him: the second Swordfish is ready. He will be able to join his friend, to support his wingman to whom he announces the news. "I'm on my way!"

"Well, Mortimer, goodbye, and God save England! On hearing the last words of Blake leaping towards the surface, Mortimer rushes to the second aircraft and engages the maneuver. Every minute, every second counts as Blake fights alone against the enemy.

He listens anxiously to his radio. Trembling at every second of the engagement.

But the Swordfish proves its strength!

One after the other, its targets are struck by its atomic rockets, almost at the same time as an impressive blast effect that follows the device.***

The Swordfish not afraid of the waves. Blake uses the sea to his advantage, not hesitating it to skim the surface.

Mortimer reassures himself little by little, each announcement of a hit on a target has the taste of victory. Maybe Blake did not need his help after all!

But suddenly the radio sizzles, Blake calls and the anxiety is clearly noticeable in his voice. Something serious is happening! "Mortimer! Mortimer! The elevators are stuck! I've lost pitch control!"

Immediately, Mortimer understands the danger. "Heavens!" He shouts the command that must save Blake in his radio: "The cockpit, quick! Eject the cockpit" In the end, it will be up to him to protect Blake, if he survives the few minutes where, vulnerable outside his hull, he will be at the mercy of the smallest well-aimed shot. "I'm coming!"

He is close to the surface, but he is not there yet, and at every second passing Mortimer rages and prays with all his soul that Francis survives. The only reason he does not scream in his radio to encourage Blake, to tell him that he too would do everything to never lose him, ignoring the operators who could hear him, is that by ejecting, Blake has lost radio contact, as the wireless device was part of the aircraft.

These are very long seconds for Mortimer, who is watching his future targets on the radar, until finally the SX2 surfaces.

The fighters first! These mobile units are the most dangerous! Turning around, Mortimer has spotted Blake's parachute, which he strives to protect at all costs, targeting the units that could put him in danger one by one. Gradually, Mortimer widens his perimeter until the last aircraft carrier is destroyed.

Then, ignoring the few surviving ships fleeing in every direction, he approaches Blake, who had landed safely and is preparing to touch down on the surface. He cannot wait another moment!

Mortimer still takes the time to unfold his ladder – he would look clever jumping out of his cockpit if he could not get back in his plane - then jumps overboard to the water to join Blake who is waiting for him on the shore.

Immediately upon hitting land, Mortimer throws himself into Blake's arms. "Never again! Blake, never do something like this again!" He loosens his embrace to look his friend in the eyes. "I, too - " he begins, before starting again and spinning the metaphor the captain began earlier: "Until the end of the war, I'm not leaving your side. To hell with Briseis!"

Their first kiss, in front of the burning fleet, has a taste of iodine, salt and a smell of smoke.

* * *

* See The Secret of the Swordfish - SX1 strikes back

** The Iliad, song XVI

*** Lhasa - Oran's base in 2 hours: the Swordfish reaches at least mach 1.4 on average on a long journey! (For information, in our world in which the third world war did not take place, the Bell X-1 was the first device to cross the sound barrier in horizontal flight on October 14, 1947).


	2. Dead on his feet

The Yellow Mark. On this Christmas day, Blake has missed too many hours of sleep.

* * *

 _London, very early on the morning of Christmas 1951 **_

While Blake makes a first report via Septimus' telephone, Mortimer advises Kendal's teams not to touch any of the doctor's equipment: the annihilator*** is a good example of the potential dangerousness of the installations.

Then, finally, Blake and Mortimer are freed from their obligations. "Philip, are you able to drive?" the captain asks his friend in the hall. "I borrowed a car from the Yard, but I don't think it's safe for me to take the wheel."

"Yes of course." The professor takes the keys and opens the door. The winter night is biting cold and the professor opens his eyes wide, surprised. "Why, it snowed!" Indeed, it had snowed mightily while Mortimer was confined. London is covered in a thick, white coat.

And as Blake shows him his car - loosely "parked" across the roadway and the sidewalk, the doors still open - Mortimer, who sees no discomfort in the captain's movements, asks him: "Why wouldn't it be safe for you to take the wheel, Francis, if you drove here?"

"Hmm," Blake answers, sitting down at the front passenger side. "I'm running on adrenalin, but it won't last."

"Why? Are you hurt?" Mortimer looks more attentively at Blake, but nothing seems abnormal.

"No, no, nothing so serious."

Reassured, Mortimer starts the engine, begins his maneuver, and, once on the road, restarts the conversation. "So?"

But no answer reaches him. The professor casts a worried glance to his left. "Blake?"

"Yes? "

Arriving at an intersection, the professor stops and turns to his passenger, who is obviously not in his normal state.

Punch drunk. That's the word. The captain looks punch drunk. Yet there is a slight smile on his face.

In his whole life, Mortimer has only seen such an expression once. He was still at the Allan Glenn School, at the boxing club, and the winner in the seniors category had received a last blow that had left him dazed, but happy. Blake is a knocked-out winner.

"Francis?"

"Yes, Philip?" The sound of his name seems to reach the captain who comes out of his torpor for a moment.

Mortimer drives on again. "What happened, old chap?"

"Nothing, nothing. It's been almost three days since I last slept ..." The captain stifles a yawn and his diction becomes less precise. "... and when I collapse, it will be very fast."

"Three days!" exclaims Mortimer, swerving. His friend is actually sleep-deprived! Dead on his feet ! "With the week we had? Why?" ****

Blake takes a few seconds to answer, as if he has trouble grasping the question. "Well, you disappeared, then the Yellow Mark announced that you were in his hands, and sentenced to death, and I could not stand idly by." He explains, his words a bit slurred.

"But ... three days, Blake, you're completely mad!"

The captain lets out a little laugh. "Totally. Madly in love with you."

Mortimer jumps and turns to his passenger, who doesn't seem to realize the enormity of what he has just uttered. The captain is in a daze, struggling to keep his eyes open.

At this moment Mortimer understands all that his friend has suffered through to find him, the intensity of the emotion that animated him. In his normal state, Blake would never have said anything, and Mortimer feels a wave of tenderness and compassion surge through him. "Sleep Blake," he says, focusing on his driving. It would be unbecoming to question his friend further in this state of weakness. "You have a well-deserved rest now."

* * *

A few minutes later, when Mortimer parks in front of their home in Park Lane, Blake sleeps soundly.

The professor is just out of the car when a light turns on in the entrance hall, and the door opens. Nasir - who left the hospital shortly after Mortimer's disappearance – has been keeping watch upstairs for their arrival. He looks relieved to see the professor in good health. "Good evening Sahib."

"Good evening, Nasir. I'm glad to see you, I'll need your help." He opens the door on the passenger side, and when Nasir sees the inanimate body, he worries." The captain? "

"Is only asleep. Don't worry. The two of us should manage to get him upstairs."

Indeed, between the two of them, they manage to put Captain Blake to bed, while in a few words the professor tells Nasir about the events of the evening.

Then when they have finished their work: "Thank you, Nasir, go to bed, you seem to need it, too."

"Good night, Sahib," Nasir acknowledges, before leaving the room.

"Good night," Mortimer answers.

After the departure of his faithful servant, Mortimer lingers for a few moments. He contemplates the sleeping face of his friend Blake. He remembers the warmth of his touch. Just then he would like to reach out to his friend, but no. Blake is asleep. Blake needs to sleep.

What devotion on his part! Mortimer's heart tightens at the thought that if he had not been stunned by the lack of sleep, Blake would never have said anything. How many questions he has for his friend!

There are very few things that he himself would not do for Francis Blake. Even if he had never considered this possibility so far, this seems to include sliding into crime. This idea sends a delicious shudder through him.

Before he leaves his friend in the care of Morpheus, he leaves a note on the bedside table. "My dear Francis, when you wake up, come and find me, even if it's three o'clock in the morning and you have to get me out of bed." Whether or not Blake remembers their last exchang in the car, Mortimer does not want to let either of them doubt longer than necessary.

It is past one o'clock in the morning on Christmas Day, and the whole household is silent and asleep. Only Professor Mortimer is still awake in his room, wondering how - after all these emotions - he will manage to get to sleep.

* * *

* "Une histoire à dormir debout" means a tall story in French.

** See Yellow Mark. December 17th, the day Mortimer returns to London is a Monday. So we are in 1951.

*** named on the French version "l'éclateur", unnamed in the English translation

**** See the Yellow Mark, if since December 22th Blake did not sleep, from 19th to 21th the captain slept only three hours in 58 hours.


	3. Happy Solstice

With a thought for my little brother who wishes me a happy solstice twice a year... and since he wished me a happy equinox today(22/09/2016), I had to finish this.

 _And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars.  
From this world-wearied flesh._  
William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet  
see One last detail, Blake.

* * *

 _1954, June 21th_

Mortimer wraps a military-grade towel around his waist as he emerges from the shower. He is in Edinburgh*, on a welcome break after long hours roasting in a car and it is with relief he made use of this room in the barracks he was given after his debrief. It's good to be free of dust and grime, and good not to be a fugitive anymore. But still, Professor Mortimer frowns, deep in thought.

What adventures they're had in just a few days! Fleeing the police, handling powder and explosives, saving his colleagues, discovering an ancient Pict site, fighting Olrik again, jumping from a moving train. Scarcely believable!

Yet he thinks of none of these things. It's a completely different picture which haunts him: Blake's face when he came to free them.**

The professor had never seen his friend so expressive. How many emotions on the captain's usually phlegmatic face! An incredulous surprise first, then a savage, feral joy, and so many other fleeting emotions, the nuances of which Mortimer is still trying to grasp. Of course, Blake recovered quickly enough, but something about this first moment has left Mortimer very uncomfortable.

Mortimer puts on the clothes he was given - a uniform (his suitcase was recovered but won't be returned to him for a few days, until after the investigation ends) - and decides to talk about his turmoil to Blake. Francis will certainly have an explanation or, failing that, seeing him will probably dispel the image that torments Mortimer.

Leaving his room, the professor has only a few steps to make before knocking on the captain's door. No answer. Mortimer opens the door, but the room is empty.

As he goes back to the hallway and closes the door behind him, he hears someone climbing the stairs at the end of the corridor. It is Honeychurch who, still in a black tracksuit, comes towards him with a document holder in one hand.

"Professor Mortimer!" calls the young man, "I was coming to see you."

"Good evening, Mr. Honeychurch. Do you know where Blake is?"

"The captain is still on conference call with London. He should finish soon. Colonel Cartwright wanted to speak to him alone for a few moments now that the meeting is over." Blake's deputy hands him the documents. "Here is the transcript of your earlier testimony. Can you check that everything is correct and that nothing is missing?"

The professor takes the documents and checks the number of pages, then beckons the young man to follow him. "Come with me, I'll sit down and look at that."

Returning to his room, Mortimer sits on the bed and rereads his declaration while Honeychurch waits, looking out the window. Everything seems right; nothing is missing. Before he signs, the professor raises his head. Honeychurch was there; he may be able to cast some light.

"Mr. Honeychurch, when I came to free you earlier," he begins, and Blake's deputy turns around, "did you happen to see the captain's expression?"

"No, Professor, I was watching you come in." This is certainly true, but something in the posture of Blake's deputy seems defensive. He certainly knows what Mortimer wants to talk about.

During their Egyptian adventure***, when Blake had unmasked himself, coming back from the dead, as it were, he too had been surprised and then joyful. He had certainly kept a smug smile on his face for the next quarter of an hour. **** But there was something else on Blake's face, and Mortimer's uneasiness is only reinforced by the attitude of the captain's deputy.

Mortimer nods. "And when he told you I was dead, do you remember what he said at that time?"

Honeychurch nods and his face closes. He will never forget the captain's face and voice at that moment, nor during the minutes that followed. "He said that everything was lost, that it was his fault you were dead, and that he did not see who else could save us."

Mortimer shudders. _All is lost._ Why would Blake, always the last man to give up, say such a thing? He can sees Blake's eyes as he recognized him again and his face closes. "What happened after that?" He asks.

"Nothing," Honeychurch answers firmly. "Nothing until you arrived shortly after. Tied up and under guard, we did not get a chance."

Mortimer lowers his eyes, grateful for the loyalty of the young man - but not fooled. Whatever happened, Honeychurch will keep it secret even from his superiors, he is certain. He signs the documents and hands them to Blake's deputy who thanks him and leaves the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Mortimer pulls out his pipe and goes to the window, standing at the place Honeychurch has just left. _All is lost_. There was despair in those eyes, a resolution of death. This is not the Francis he knows. He is still missing something.

* * *

Less than half an hour later, when a few discreet knocks sound at his door, Mortimer still has not found a satisfactory explanation.

"Come in," he replies mechanically, turning to the door.

It is Blake, also in a borrowed uniform, freshly shaved and his hair damp from the shower. "Hello, old chap."

For a brief moment, Blake's smile and the manner of his greeting - and perhaps the layout of the room, so military - bring Mortimer back seven years, to Oran, on his return from Karachi. Tonight as well as then, he feels the same happiness in seeing the familiar face. "Francis!"

"I asked for some sandwiches to be brought up. Do you want to join me for tea?"

"Gladly." If he was not hungry before, he surely is now, and he cannot refuse Blake's company. He has traveled so many miles to find it!

The few steps in the corridor bring Mortimer back to his previous thoughts and his resolution to question Blake. The opportunity is perfect: they will have time to speak.

"By the way, when do we leave?" With all that has happened, Mortimer had not caught the details of their trip home.

"In a few hours, by night train. We'll be in London by tomorrow morning." Blake seems lost in thought.

By train! It's been an eternity since they last took the train together. Is Blake also thinking of their first meeting in India?

Mortimer does not have the opportunity to ask the question. A young sergeant arrives at that moment with their snack.

* * *

Once they are alone again, sitting down with a hot cup of tea around the small table of the very spartan room, Mortimer sighs in his ease. "That's something I really needed."

Blake nods briefly. "I'm not going to contradict you on that."

"Francis." Now that they are well settled and have time to spare, Mortimer decides to tackle the subject and dispel his discomfort once and for all. "I met Honeychurch just before, when he came to make me sign my statement."

Blake, whose attention is drawn by the sudden seriousness of his friend's tone, turns entirely to him.

"We spoke of the moment when you thought me dead."

The captain turns deathly pale.

Mortimer is now certain that something terrible had happened, but immediately he goes on, not wanting Blake to get further upset. "Don't worry, he didn't say anything, I think he'll take your secret to the grave." Whatever that secret is.

The apprehension gradually disappears from Blake's face. He recovers some of his usual phlegm and Mortimer continues, wanting an explanation nevertheless. "On the other hand he reported your words back, Francis. All is lost? Really? I know you're not an optimist, but I've never seen you give up!"

Blake closes his eyes for a moment, frowning, revealing a brief expression of suffering, as if he were cursing the weakness that led him to use this turn of phrase.

Then, with deep breath, he reopens them, resolved.

A tenseness has fallen over them. Mortimer leans imperceptibly forward, drawn to his friend who then speaks carefully.

"My dear, dear old chap, I have to confess something." Blake swallows, his mouth seemingly dry and Mortimer holds his breath in the electric atmosphere. What can Blake fear so much?

"I have become attached to you in a way that is neither natural nor normal," Blake continues slowly, holding each word back as if to delay even a little the revelation he fears. "To such an extent that I can not conceive a world where you do not exist." The captain closes his eyes at these last words so as not to see the professor's reaction, fearing to find disapproval there. He is almost shaking!

The professor's eyes widen as he understands. Mortimer is bewildered, but finds himself trembling too. So that was it! He once again sees Blake's face as he opened the door, the despair, the surprise and the joy, the relief and a return to life, an impulse driven by intense emotion. Francis Blake loves him. Deeply. Madly. Truly.

"Francis ..." Mortimer is so moved he has to try twice before he can whisper the captain's name.

Feeling Mortimer's turmoil, Blake opens his eyes. What intensity in his look!

"Francis." Mortimer repeats, trying in turn to make his friend understand what he feels. "When I decided to come and find you I did not know if you were a traitor or not." A flash of doubt and resignation pass through the captain's eyes, and Mortimer shakes his head in denial. "No, that's not what I mean."

All the intensity he set out to pursue Blake during this adventure emerges in his almost trembling voice when he declares: "For you, I was ready to suffer the fate that Olrik meant for my colleagues."

Blake breathes in, surprised. Mortimer would have joined him even if it meant being sold to an enemy country? For him ? But he could never have done such a thing, even if he had betrayed his country. "You would never have forgiven me."

The atmosphere relaxed a bit, and Mortimer almost smiles. "If you had not come with me, certainly."

In response, Blake reaches out to Mortimer who takes his hand.

Together they stand up, look at each other and hug in the late afternoon sunlight – the sun is far from setting ***** – until a noise in the corridor makes them jump.

"This will be a long night," Blake whispers as the hallway fills with footsteps, regretting the lack of privacy.

"On the contrary!" Mortimer replies, always the scientist. "This is the shortest night of the year."

"Ghrianstad sona, my dear. Happy solstice!"

"Happy solstice!" Blake replies, smiling.

* * *

* According to Blake, at the end of the adventure, a car is waiting to take them back to London. But we are in the early or mid-afternoon, and given the number of miles (it takes 10 hours currently by the small roads, so in 1954 it must have been more ! Mortimer took 24 hours to arrive from York to Ardmuir!) either they will do it in steps, or there will be other means of transport. I choose for them to go back to Edinburgh to catch a night train, either there or by intercepting the Royal Highlander - either in Perth or down the line at an unplanned stop. Now that the matter is more or less "resolved", and that only the debriefings remain, it would surprise me that the I.S. bankrolls them a return by plane.

** Personally, the picture that haunts me is Blake's face when he tells Honeychurch that Mortimer is dead. I am sure that his emotion at seeing the professor intact was just as intense. No wonder he's seen from the back on this scene.

*** See the Mystery of the Great Pyramid.

**** Go check if you do not believe me. Pages 26 to 28, Mortimer is beaming. He begins to goes back into serious mode page 29.

***** 4h30 – 22h00 mid-June sun hours in Edinburgh


	4. It was worth a wound

Guess who fell on the street going back to work after lunch and scratched her knees back in the beginning of September? Yep, it's me. My first thought upon getting up was "at least my trousers aren't torn", then looking at the scratches below "you are kidding me/that bad even through the fabric " ... and then I thought of Mortimer.

* * *

That evening, some time in the last week of June, 1954, Professor Mortimer had returned to his home in Park Lane and was smoking a pipe in his armchair and reading the evening edition of the newspaper when the sound of footsteps and a door closing made him raise his head: Captain Blake was coming home from work.

"Good evening, Philip." His friend greeted him with a frank smile. Blake put down the suitcase to take off his cap and hang his coat on the stand. Mortimer lowered the newspaper that concealed him from the incomer's eyes and inhaled a puff of smoke before replying. "Good evening Francis, you seem to be in a good mood!"

"Well, I am," the captain explained, lifting the suitcase back up and moving into the room, "the case is finally closed - or at least that which does not deserve a more thorough investigation - and we are officially cleared, and likely to receive a medal. " More than likely in fact, and Blake had certainly insisted that Mortimer should be rewarded on the same basis. "Besides, I brought your suitcase back," he said, brandishing the object in question.

Then suddenly his face became darker and serious, almost anxious.

"You did not tell me you were hurt!" he exclaimed, his voice full of reproach.

For a moment, Mortimer looked at him uncomprehendingly, then his eyes fell on the suitcase and he remembered his tweed trousers - not so new anymore - his pathetic falls and the condition of his knees, and he blushed. Blake, with his training and agility, would have managed to get out without falling, thought Mortimer, who was certainly not about to dwell on an accident he was not proud of. "I fell," he explained, simply, trying to minimize the incident. "Nothing serious."

Blake put the suitcase back down near the coffee table. "Your trousers are torn at both knees!" he observed, "and they were covered with blood!"

Mortimer nodded. He remembered very well how he had wiped the wound on his right knee with what was left of the unfortunate garment before he had made a makeshift dressing with his handkerchief – the one he had taken from around his left knee. He had then donned clean - and intact - trousers before venturing into town.

"It was only a superficial wound," he said, trying to reassure the captain. Really it was nothing compared to what he had feared for a moment before jumping: to break a leg or his neck. What was this scratch then? "Really it's nothing."

Blake shook his head, not really convinced by the professor's argument.

"Show me," he demanded in a tone not to be trifled with.

Confronted with the unwavering authority of the head of MI5, Mortimer sighed, folded his newspaper and placed it on the table next to his chair before bending over. He first seized the hem of the left leg of his trousers, folded it methodically, gradually turning the cloth to expose his knee.

The few scratches had almost finished healing, but the bruises marking each stone's impact were still visible, marbling his skin with purple and green. In one more week, every mark would have disappeared without a trace.

Nothing serious, really.

Blake had approached, kneeling just in front of Mortimer to carefully examine the injured joint, frowning.

Mortimer opened his mouth and almost made a comment but then, shrugging slightly, changed his mind and leaned forward without a word instead to raise the second leg of his trousers.

His right knee was nearly in the same condition as the left - the wound was not much more recent - except for the nasty scar that barred its left side, where a sharper ballast stone had cut the skin. It was still very red, and he would probably keep a thin white scar from it - a very harmless reminder of all this adventure. Frankly, it was nothing, Mortimer told himself.

Blake, on the other hand, took a sudden inspiration from seeing the state of Mortimer's second knee, and he raised his hand to cautiously follow the outline of the still swollen wound.

"How did you get that?" he asked in a tone that marked his complete resolve to get an answer.

The professor sighed. "I told you before, Francis." He thought of his friend's tenacity and of the fact that he would unfortunately have to confess his clumsiness. He sighed again and added, "I fell ..." he trailed off for a moment before admitting, "… twice."

Blake raised his head, staring at him with his clear eyes, and Mortimer blushed with embarrassment before continuing, defeated. "While jumping from a moving train: London - Peterborough, and Peterborough-York," he explained tersely, pointing to one knee and then the other.

At these words, Blake seized the right leg at the ankle and upper calf, startling Mortimer with the strength of his grasp.

"From a train." Blake repeated, whispering cautiously. Slowly, he unclenched his stiff fingers, trying to control his surprise and his fright. Indeed, for a fall from a running train – (twice!) - those were only scratches. And yet, once again, Mortimer had put himself in danger for him, had even paid with his body, his blood, to come to his rescue. With his thumb he unthinkingly traced the untouched skin under the scar, and when he noticed, he stopped, suddenly conscious of the intimacy of their posture and contact.

A strange tension had arisen, almost uncomfortable, and Blake froze, not daring to move. He snuck an apprehensive glance at Mortimer, who seemed equally petrified, but Blake could not bring himself to pull away, to resume his distance.

He had never been so close to Mortimer, so intimately, and if Olrik had been right, if he had had a say, it would never have happened.

. _.. his corpse is currently floating towards the Shetlands ..._

The echo of Olrik's voice brought him back to the events of last week in an instant. Suddenly Blake found himself overwhelmed by the emotions he had barely allowed himself to express.

Suddenly he lowered his head, leaned his forehead against Mortimer's right knee. He lowered his face and with the reassurance allowed by this close contact, he let himself be carried away by the flood of feeling.

* * *

Slowly, the silence settled and Mortimer watched Blake accept little by little the reality of the danger he had run. Lost in his thoughts, the captain had begun to trace the outline of his wound with his finger, when the professor had felt a strange sensation seize him.

He suddenly had the impulse to cross his legs and pull back, or perhaps, on the contrary, to spread them and lean forward, but to do _something_ to break the tension that had gradually come upon them, an uneasiness so pleasant that he could not resolve to back out of it.

No, he scolded himself, there was nothing to read there. It was not because he had noticed less than a week ago that he was not at all indifferent to Blake that all of a sudden he had to lose all objectivity when observing their interactions. This did not mean anything, Blake was worried, he was _his friend._

The sudden drop of Blake's head on his knee pulled him from his reflections, effectively breaking the tension at the same time.

"Francis?" he exclaimed, surprised.

There was no response but a barely perceptible movement of Blake's shoulders, but when Mortimer felt a drop on his skin, he leaned forward, aghast and anxious, laying his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Francis?"

Blake was crying.

"It's ..." he whispered between two quick breaths, meaning to be reassuring, "... it's relief ..."

Mortimer, still frowning, remained motionless, leaving his hand reassuringly on Blake's shoulder. The captain wiped a furtive tear*.

At once Blake regained his self-control, exerting that absolute command over his emotions, and his voice expressed nothing of the last few minutes' turmoil when he spoke - without, however, raising his head.

"You must know... when you came to rescue us, you did not just save the situation, Philip." It was thus that Blake began, trying to explain what he had no words for - that it was his life, his soul, perhaps, that Mortimer had saved by reappearing _alive_.

"When Olrik told me you were dead..."

"Oh!" Mortimer winced and tightened his grip on Blake's shoulder. He would never have imagined that the deceitful man could have thus taken advantage of the situation. Only Blake's sparkling eyes – he had lifted his head for a moment - prevented him from speaking further.

The captain looked down again. After this interruption, his tongue cleaved to his palate and did not let him continue on this path. He could no longer find words to say what Mortimer's reappearance had meant for him, the depth of his feelings, and... Suddenly another idea surfaced and he spoke again.

"You know that I am ready to give my life for my country." Without saying a word, the professor nodded, even though the captain no longer looked at him. "What you may not know, however, is that when I met Olrik during this adventure and tried to convince him that I had really changed sides ..." he grimaced. "I told him that every man had his price, including me. That's true, I did not lie in saying that. But for me, the price - which could push me to betray my country - is you, Philip."

He went on immediately, before the professor could express his surprise. "If my loyalty to you and my loyalty to my country were opposed, it is you I would choose, without hesitation, every time." And now launched, he finally succeeded in expressing his thoughts. "I am yours, Philip, body and soul."

The professor's eyes widened as his friend's speech progressed. He felt the air gather in his lungs, and as soon as Blake raised his eyes, signally the end of his speech, Mortimer Mortimer slid his right hand lower and leaned forward. He grabbed both of Blake's arms and pulled him up as he stood, before rushing to embrace him in his arms, sure of himself, in a generous and reassuring hug.

"I'm glad," he said then over the stunned captain's shoulder. "I'm glad that you understand me, Francis."

Then he explained. "Your colleagues never found the money concealed in the Toltec statue, but I did, and until I arrived in York I was absolutely not sure of where your loyalty lay." Mortimer took a deep breath. "But I knew where mine went - to you - and I knew that I had to find you."

Pulling back slightly, he looked straight at Blake. "And if I had had to jump off a third train, I would have done it again."

It was well worth a wound, any wound, to see Blake's eyes lit up with such gratitude. They fell back into each other's arms.

Suddenly aware that Blake was participating in their embrace with more pleasure than enthusiasm, Mortimer drew back, surprised, searching his friend's eyes again.

However the latter lowered his eyes for a moment, before explaining himself, repeating again in a low voice, embarrassed, almost apologizing: "Body and soul, Philip."

The smile that widened on the professor face expressed a joy that could have rivaled the one he had the first time he finalized the first plans of his Swordfish.

Without hesitation, Mortimer took Blake's face in his hands and kissed him frankly.

When, after a few moments, Blake finally overcame his surprise to respond with enthusiasm in turn, it would have been difficult to say which was the happiest of the two.

* * *

Extra

Much later that evening, and in a much more relaxed atmosphere with a smile in his voice, Blake asked Mortimer: "Do you find this a sufficient reward for your acts of bravery?"

"Blake!" Mortimer choked. "By Jove, I sincerely hope you were not seriously talking about medals earlier! Otherwise I won't be able to think of anything other than this moment during the whole ceremony!"

Blake started to laugh.

* * *

* Donizetti


End file.
